


Her Happy Ending

by redcandle17



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:18:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcandle17/pseuds/redcandle17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tourney is held at Winterfell with Sansa's hand in marriage as the prize, and Sansa will do anything to ensure that she gets a happy ending like in the songs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Happy Ending

"It's so romantic," Sansa sighed, after the singer had finished his song about a beautiful princess whose father gave her away as the prize in a great tourney.

"It's not. She was lucky to have been won by such a gallant knight," Jeyne Poole said.

Sansa didn't reply. She felt a little sad. The old Jeyne would have agreed with her, but this Jeyne had spent years enduring things worse than what had befallen Sansa and it had changed her.

Jeyne smiled, though it looked forced to Sansa. "You could try the same," she teased, "But you might end up being won by someone awful like the Hound."

Actually Sansa would have liked that very much, but she'd never spoken a word about it to anyone. First there had been no one to speak with of such things, and later something else held her back. She should be evaluating the qualities of the lords who courted her, not dreaming of a household retainer with a black reputation. And a part of her hoped that if she never voiced it aloud, then her wishes on the matter might come true.

Lord Manderly had brought his grandson and a huge array of fine foods, plus a pair of lovely silver bracelets for Sansa. The grandson was for Sansa too, as was the reason for the visit. Ser Roland was a good man, but she had to repress a shudder when she thought of being wed to him. He was the second fattest man she had ever seen, the first being his lord grandfather.

The Manderlys were steadfast in their loyalty and theirs was a wealthy House. It would be good for them to be joined to the Starks by marriage and perhaps it was selfish of Sansa not to accept Lord Manderly's proposal, but the thought repulsed her. Luckily her brother did not pressure her one way or the other. Bran might be Lord of Winterfell now, but she was still his big sister and the thought that he could force her to wed was alien to him.

However Sansa knew she needed to marry and soon. Stark bannermen regularly came calling, enumerating to Bran all the ways a marriage between their House and his would benefit everyone. There were visits and letters from southron lords too. The Tyrells had renewed their attempt to win her hand for the heir to Highgarden, Willas. But Sansa had not forgotten how they had used her as a pawn and blamed her for regicide. She was reluctant to wed away from the North; afraid that there might be war again and she would become a hostage, afraid that those who should be her new family might become her captors and treat her as unkindly as the Lannisters had.

"Is it love, Sansa? Am I going to have to welcome Ser Roland as a new brother?" Bran grinned down at her from his place in the high chair that had been their father's.

Sansa glowered at him and vigorously scratched Summer's ears. "I have an idea," she announced quietly. "We should have a tourney."

Bran's expression turned wistful. He loved tales of knightly valor as much as she did. "That would be wonderful. But we haven't the money, not after all the rebuilding. And it would require people to put aside their own rebuilding to come here."

"They're already coming here," Sansa pointed out. "And there's enough in the coffers for the feast and incidental expenses. We needn't prize money."

Bran looked dubious. "You think they would joust merely for the glory of victory?"

"Perhaps. But the prize would be something they all want: my hand."

Sansa yelped as Arya slapped the back of her head.

"That's the stupidest idea you've ever had," her sister said.

"It is not," Sansa declared, rubbing her head and deciding that it wouldn't be befitting a lady to strike Arya back at the table. "Our bannermen will feel like they all have a fair chance, the wealthy Manderlys and the poor Lockes alike. And the town will profit from their spending."

"A tourney," Bran said. Sansa knew he had never seen one. She could tell he wanted agree to her plan. But he was such a good brother, he asked, "Sansa, are you sure? You could end up promised to _anyone_."

"I'm sure."

"You're both stupid," Arya announced. "When you end up wed to Greatjon Umber, don't come looking to me to kill him."

Sansa thought her sister was jesting, but she suspected not. Arya scared her sometimes. She gave her wary look, and began discussing the details of the tourney with Bran.

She found Sandor Clegane in the yard, where he spent most of his time training new guards. Her brother Rickon was there, battling another boy with a wooden sword. He was the better swordsman, she observed with sisterly pride. Her brother was a fierce little boy and with Sandor's training, he would be a great warrior one day.

"What are you doing here?" Sandor's voice was as rough as ever.

That was no way for the master-at-arms to speak to the lord's sister, but Sansa was used to his manner. Oh, she did dream of him whispering sweet words to her, but his bluntness had its appeal after all the honeyed lies she'd been told.

"I wished to speak with you." She deliberately added, "Ser," to make him scowl.

He set the boys to slashing at straw dummies instead of each other and leaned against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest. "Speak."

Sansa worked to prevent her forehead from wrinkling in a frown. Sandor had been downright unfriendly to her since coming to Winterfell. She had no words for what there had been between them in King's Landing and he had abandoned the Faith to fight for her and her family, but now he acted as though he scarcely knew her. _You made me sing you a song and you kissed me. You held me after Mother's final death._ Could she have been wrong?

Sandor reached out and brushed her lips with his forefinger. "Has someone stolen your tongue, little bird?"

He _did_ want her. He _did_ love her. He held her chin to make her up look up at him and Sansa covered his hand with her own. His burn scars were hideous; nothing would ever make them not so. That face and the tall, heavily muscled body beneath it made him a fearsome sight. But she didn't have to fear him; only those who meant her harm had to fear him.

"There is to be a tourney," she told him. "I should very much like to see you champion."

He grinned, his mouth twisting queerly on account of the burned flesh around it. "You don't need me to be Queen of Love and Beauty. Any man who wins would choose you."

"I want it to be you."

She knew when Sandor heard about the details of the tourney. She was on her way to the Great Hall one day when he yanked her into the shadow of a disused building. "Have you lost your wits?" he demanded. "And that cripple brother of yours is no better. Do you know what kind of scum could win this tourney?" He shook her. "I thought you'd learned some sense, girl. Skill with a lance is nothing to base your choice of husband on. You're still dreaming of the Knight of Flowers? They're not all like him. My brother was a good jouster too, and Jaime Lannister was the best."

"And you. I've seen you myself, and heard more. The others are dead; the competition you face in this tourney should be poor."

He stared at her, uncomprehending, his fingers digging into her shoulders. Sansa tried to wrench away from him and he let her go. She cupped his face between her hands. "I mean for you to win this tourney…and my hand."

He said nothing. It amused her to think that she'd rendered him speechless. He always had something to say, whether she wanted to hear him or not.

Finally, he said, "There's no certainty in a tourney. You can't be sure who will win. There was a tourney after Balon Greyjoy's Rebellion. All bets were on the Kingslayer, yet one of your northmen matched him lance for lance and in the end Robert awarded him the victory."

"I've heard how Ser Jorah Mormont won that tourney - and the heart and hand of Lynesse Hightower." Sansa thought it best not to mention that Lady Lynesse had left Mormont a few short years later.

"Does your bastard brother know what madness you children are getting up to here?"

"The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch does not interfere in the affairs of the realm," Sansa informed him, ignoring the insult.

"I have no lands, no home to provide for you even if I do win."

"It doesn't matter. We can live here."

"Not all the lords who come to court you are fat like Manderly or old like Umber. There are handsome young ones."

"I don't know them."

"Then speak with them and get to know them."

"I wouldn't know any of them truly until I was living in his home and I may discover then that he was different than I'd thought and it would be too late. What if I wed one of those handsome young lords and he beat me?"

"_I'll_ beat you."

"No, you won't."

"I drink."

"I know. Shall you more often leer at my breasts or cry in my arms, do you think?"

"If we're married, it's not _leering_ I'll be doing to your teats."

If Sandor meant to scare her with those words, he failed. The words conjured an image of his mouth suckling at her breasts and the phantom sensation of it made her nipples tighten and tingle in a way she felt all the way down to between her legs. "I will look forward to it, my lord," she replied, blushing.

"I'll compete," he said at last, "But I hope you will reconsider this madness and choose a suitable husband."

The matter was as good as resolved in Sansa's mind. "I'll need to borrow your shield to sketch the sigil so I'll have something to guide me when I sew the bride's cloak."

It was months until the tourney could be held. Ravens were sent with the announcement all throughout the realm, and ravens flew back to Winterfell with letters promising to attend from as far away as Dorne. Some people were coming just to watch. It made Sansa a little worried. She knew the northerners well enough to know that there were no great champions among them, but some of the young southron knights might be a match for Sandor. No, the gods would not be so cruel. They had been kind enough to restore her home and most of her family to her; surely they would provide her with a decent husband at long last.

Sandor had gone back to avoiding her after their conversation. She was unable to talk to him about the matter of his clothes and he was likely to have been obstinate anyway, so she retrieved several articles of his clothing from the washerwomen and used those to determine his measurements before she began her work. She would _not_ have him dressed like a beggar when he wed her. She knew him well enough to know that he would flat out refuse to wear anything too fancy so she chose simple designs and dark colors, and used fabric of good but not luxurious quality. She couldn't have him continue to dress in his old clothes after they were married; no proper wife would allow her husband to wear such rags, and Sansa meant to be a very good wife. She sewed him an entire new wardrobe before she began work on things for herself.

By the time the day of the tourney arrived, Sansa had long finished sewing a white maiden's cloak that bore the grey direwolf of Stark. She had finished a bride's cloak too, yellow satin embroidered with the three black dogs of Clegane. The bride's cloak was hidden in the cedar chest that contained her most prized possessions. She had two new gowns as well, one to wear to the tourney and another for the wedding that would follow.

The wedding had initially been scheduled for right after the tourney. Immediately upon his victory, the winner of the jousting would give Sansa his cloak of protection instead of a crown of flowers and he would take her as his prize. Yet it was apparent that that would not be possible. Too many men had arrived to compete and the jousting would last the whole day so the wedding would have take place the day afterwards.

There were so many highborn men and women the castle could scarcely hold them all. Their men had to camp outside the castle or find lodgings in the wintertown. Sansa had heard that some families were sharing their homes with the visitors in exchange for coin. As promised, there was a contingent from Dorne; the young lord of Starfall, his cousin the Knight of High Hermitage, and several of their retainers. There were also lesser lords and knights from the riverlands, the stormlands, the Reach, the Vale, and even the westerlands; and of course all of the northern lords had come.

The only great House to send anyone was Tyrell, and no one of Tyrell blood had come. They had sent one of their sworn knights, Ser Galladon, to joust for her hand on behalf of Willas Tyrell. _Even if Willas cannot joust, he could still have come to watch at least, and escort me to his home if his man won._ Sansa took it for an insult, and no amount of roses and other gifts from the Highgarden party could change her mind.

Ser Galladon was a young man her own age and already said to be a great champion. Men loved to speak of themselves to Sansa so she heard of all the tourneys and battles they had fought in. None of the men who had come to Winterfell were as famed – and feared – a warrior as the Hound. Yet this Ser Galladon had won several tourneys already. If Sandor should lose, it would likely be to him.

Sansa Stark had learned from Petyr Baelish that only fools left important outcomes to chance, and she was not the fool she'd once been. She befriended Ser Galladon under the guise of learning more about the family he served. She feigned interest in the tales he told her and waited until he inquired about her wellbeing to confess her fear that Sandor Clegane might win the tourney.

"If we were in the south, we might disqualify him from participating since he is not a knight. But my sweet brother and I can find no reason to prevent him from jousting. I fear he will win my hand. His face is so ugly and the things they said he did at Saltpans…" Tears sparkled prettily in her big blue eyes as she spoke. "It'd be so awful to have to marry him."

Ser Galladon shared her distress and assured her that he would defeat the Hound. He murmured soothing words and patted her back comfortingly as she wept on his shoulder. Sansa felt bad for using him thus but she told herself it was necessary to protect herself and her brothers. Once she had been made to wed a Lannister in order that they might claim Winterfell through her after murdering her brother; the Tyrells had already proved capable of murder and they might very well try to do what the Lannisters had done unless she made sure they couldn't.

The morning of the tourney Bran assembled the bannermen who had come and asked them to swear before the weirwood heart tree in the godswood that they would allow the champion to claim his sister's hand without quarrel. They all swore the oath, each confident that he would be the one to win and become good brother to Lord Stark. Winterfell's new septon oversaw the swearing of the same oath by the southerners and those northerners who were of the Faith.

After Ser Galladon had sworn the oath with the others, Sansa sought him out. He repeated his reassurance that he would be victorious and see her safely wed to the noble Willas Tyrell.

"I pray that is so." She gave him a weak smile and allowed tears to well in her eyes.

"What is it, my lady?"

"I once saw the Hound kill a man in a tourney," Sansa lied. "I should hate for you to be murdered. And some of these northmen are near as bad as Clegane. You've seen them. I want to go south where it's warm and there are proper gods and virtuous knights." She knew that the Highgarden party had not realized how cold the North was even in the spring, and that they were terribly uncomfortable in their light clothing made for warm southern springs. And the wilder northmen with their bushy beards and animal skin clothing must seem like savages to the southron lordlings. Sansa was counting on the fact that Ser Galladon found her home a frozen hell and would assume she did too.

"A dog like Clegane will not stop me. I will win."

"You are a gallant knight truly, ser. But the Hound is a great champion too. What if he wins and claims me? Surely you won't allow him to have me, will you?"

"No," he said resolutely. "I will challenge him to further combat should he unhorse me in the jousting."

"Oh, no," she cried. "He's very strong. He could kill you even with a tourney lance during the joust."

"Then I will meet the dog with sword in hand."

"Oh, thank you." Sansa kissed his cheek. "You are my hero. Will you ride beside me every day when we make our way south to Highgarden?"

The young knight blushed. "I will, Lady Sansa."

She gave him one of her silk hair ribbons as a favor and took her leave of him, hoping that his resolve would not crumble and he would do as he had promised. She wondered whether Sandor would kill him or allow him to live in disgrace. She supposed that depended on whether Galladon yielded or persisted in fighting to the end. She recalled the adoration in his brown eyes when he looked at her. Likely he found her worth dying for. It was a pity such a gallant knight had to die, but it was the Tyrells' fault for sending him, not hers.

Sansa sat with her brothers in the place of honor at the newly created tourney grounds outside of Winterfell. Her sister was nowhere to be seen. Arya had told her that she would have jousted too if the prize had been worthwhile. Sansa feared that she had been serious. It would be just like Arya to joust, and she might even win; and what kind of tourney would that be? She couldn't marry _her sister_. Ladies weren't supposed to ride in tourneys; that was what knights did. But then Arya had never been a true lady.

All thoughts of her sister fled when the first riders appeared. Two southron lordlings faced each other, one unhorsing the other on their second tilt. Then a hedge knight unhorsed a riverlord in their first tilt. Sansa became engrossed in the proceedings. The men were ever so gallant, and no one was really being hurt. Everyone was enjoying themselves. The highborn spectators cheered as lustily as the commons. Beside her Bran was watching it all with much enjoyment and a little envy while Rickon shouted for his favorites.

Sansa couldn't help but smile when Ser Galladon rode out for his first joust. He looked splendid in his silvery plate armor atop a white horse. The ribbon she had given him fluttered from his arm, a darker blue than the cloak that streamed from his shoulders. He dipped his lance to her before he began, and defeated his first foeman quite easily.

"Do you favor him?" Bran asked.

"He is a fine knight," Sansa said truthfully.

"Arya's helping Sandor," Rickon told them. "I wanted to be his squire but he said I was too young. No one else would let me help them either."

Sansa frowned. She hoped Arya didn't make any errors, intentional or otherwise, that might cost Sandor the tourney. She had long suspected that Arya knew how she felt about Sandor, or how he felt about her, or both. Perhaps Sandor had told her, though Sansa couldn't imagine why he would confide such things to _Arya_.

Sandor Clegane looked like the Stranger Himself when he appeared. He rode the big black courser he was so fond of, and wore dark grey armor. His helm was plain and ordinary, and Sansa found herself missing the snarling hound's head helm he had worn at the Hand's Tourney. It had had a certain style, and fearsome was better than plain. He rode well and it seemed to cost him little effort to knock Ser Roland from his horse (Sansa thought the horse looked grateful).

The jousting continued all day. Serving women brought fruit and cheese and sweetened bread for the Starks to eat as they watched the tourney. Greatjon Umber overthrew three foes, among them the Dornish knight called Darkstar, and for a while Sansa feared he might prevail to the end. She had not counted on that. Fortunately Sandor finally unhorsed him after breaking three lances.

Ser Galladon's victory over the young lord of Starfall was even more impressive. Edric Dayne nearly managed to drive Ser Galladon from his horse on their first tilt. But seven lances later both knights were still mounted. Lord Edric wanted Bran to decide the winner, but Ser Galladon insisted they ride again and this time he sent his foe flying from his horse.

Then it was the end. There were only two competitors left. Sansa felt beside her for Rickon's hand and squeezed it tight. She had donned a hooded cloak and gone to Sandor's bed chamber last night to make sure he would take part in the tourney for her hand.

"Aye," he'd answered sourly. "Too late now. You should have run to Highgarden when you had the chance."

"Good," Sansa had said, and given him the tunic and breeches she wanted him to wear to their wedding.

She silently beseeched the old gods and the new to make Ser Galladon keep his promise. They heard and deigned to bless her. Instead of a lance Ser Galladon brandished a sword when he rode down the lists to challenge Sandor. There were shocked gasps and murmurs of confusion from the crowd, growing louder every moment.

"Ser Galladon," Bran called. "This tournament is for jousting only. Put away your sword."

"I cannot, my lord," replied Ser Galladon. "I fear this dog will not relinquish the prize he feels close to winning." To Sandor he said, "Get your sword, ser."

"Don't call me _ser_," the Hound snarled.

There was shouting now. People had realized that Ser Galladon carried live steel, not a blunted tourney sword. Lord Umber roared about southron treachery and Lord Dayne tried to dissuade Galladon from his foolishness. Sansa worried that Ser Galladon would falter, but then Arya brought Sandor his sword and the young knight couldn't back down without looking like a coward.

The white horse and the black one charged each other and steel clashed. Sansa found herself remembering the riot in King's Landing and the screams of the man whose hand the Hound had cut off to save her. That man had meant to hurt her and he'd deserved what he'd gotten, but she had still had bad dreams about the blood spurting from his stump. Ser Galladon was a good man. _No. He's no more handsome than Joffrey, and his words are no kinder than Littlefinger's. He's a liar too. They're all liars._

Ser Galladon cut at Sandor again and again and when Sandor raised his shield to catch the blow, Galladon swung his sword beneath the shield as quick as a snake. Was that blood? Sansa might have screamed, but her throat was closed and she could only gasp for more air. _Not the Hound. Please._

Sandor swung his shield and knocked aside Ser Galladon's sword. His own sword found the gap between Galladon's armor under his arm and plunged in. Galladon's sword fell from his grasp and he toppled from his horse. It was over.

The feast was subdued at first, but as the wine flowed voices grew louder and laughter and singing replaced talk of the dead knight. No one approached Sansa but she could see them giving her pitying looks. She didn't try to conceal her distress; after all, it would look amiss if a highborn maiden _wanted_ to marry a landless retainer with the Hound's ugly face and uglier reputation. No one would guess she was worrying whether he would be well enough for them to wed tomorrow. Rickon had told her the maester said the wound was not serious, so Sansa no longer feared for Sandor's life. But the wedding needed to occur soon, else someone might come up with a reason it shouldn't happen if given enough time.

"I suppose it should not have come as a surprise," Bran said. "I will offer Sandor lands and a lordship instead. He'll accept them."

"Is that honorable? Oaths were sworn. He won me fairly."

"No one will stop him if he wants you, but I do not think he would force you to wed him."

Sansa lowered her voice so they would not be overheard. "I _want_ to marry him."

Bran looked surprised. "But why? You always said you would marry a handsome gallant knight."

Her brother had grown up listening to the same tales she had and Sansa knew he would understand. "Florian wasn't handsome and the maesters say he couldn't have been a knight because knighthood was unknown to Westeros at the time. Yet Florian is the greatest knight of them all anyway." She smiled. "Sandor is my Florian."

"That is why you suggested a tourney for your hand."

She nodded. "Sandor is a great knight. I knew he would win."

Bran looked bemused. "Well, he's a great fighter. I hope you are happy then. You'll need a dowry so I will give him the lands anyway."

She intended to stay at Winterfell but her children would need something to inherit. "The Bolton lands perhaps?" Sansa suggested. The Dreadfort had stood empty since the treacherous Bolton line had been extinguished.

"That might be too much. The Dreadfort was second only to Winterfell. Our bannermen will complain if it is awarded to Sandor."

Sansa was not concerned. "Let them complain. They can challenge Sandor if they'd like; I will be sure of the outcome." The lands that had belonged to the Boltons now belonged to the Starks, and she was a Stark. In her opinion it belonged to her. Rickon and his children would inherit Winterfell from Bran so he had no need of another castle. There was Arya, but Sansa was the elder and had the better claim.

Bran did not look convinced but he agreed to give her the Dreadfort. Sansa hugged him happily. Everything was perfect. Well, almost. Sandor had to wed and bed her, and then everything really would be perfect.

Sansa awoke as the sun was rising. She opened the shutters of her windows and climbed back into bed with the light of dawn on her. Today was her wedding day. She'd dreamt of this day as far back as she could remember. As a little girl she had used her dolls to enact scenes of a lovely lady wedding a brave knight. The wedding the Lannisters had forced on her seemed like merely a bad dream, like it had never really happened. She was in her own bed safe at Winterfell, and this was her true wedding day.

Her maids brought her a light breakfast and then they began the task of making her beautiful. She took a long bath in water strewn with petals from the first roses to bloom in the glass garden since it had been rebuilt. Arya and Jeyne arrived to help her get ready as her hair (her own rich auburn hair, not Alayne Stone's brown hair) was being brushed. Sansa wasn't quite sure exactly how Arya would help, but it seemed right that her sister should be there. She would have given nearly anything to have her mother too.

"I'd offer you advice about the wedding night but you've been married before," Jeyne commented.

"I'm a maiden," Sansa said, more sharply than she'd intended.

"Ah, then perhaps I should share a few things with you."

"I'm not ignorant. I know what to expect and what to do."

Jeyne looked hurt. "I was only trying to help."

Sansa knew that. She was being unkind but Jeyne was reminding her of things she'd rather not remember and it irritated her. "I'm sorry. Would you be a dear and go see that the cook has everything ready for the feast?"

After Jeyne had left, Arya said, "I don't like her. I forgave her for pretending to be me because they made her do it, but I still don't like her. She's jealous of me."

"Why would she be jealous of you?"

Arya rolled her eyes. "She wishes she was a lady, stupid. She thinks I'm not a proper lady and she'd be a better one than me. She acts the lady when you're not around, though she's really just a servant herself. She'd best mind how she treats the castlefolk or she's like to be found floating in the moat one day."

Sansa shuddered. "Arya!"

Arya was unapologetic. She eyed the white silk gown Sansa was being laced into as though it was an ice spider. "I hope you don't expect me to wear one of those."

Sansa had known better than to nurse any such hopes. "No, but surely you can bathe and put on clean leathers. It's my _wedding_."

"I suppose I can do that," Arya said grudgingly. She rose to leave. "I had better stop by Sandor's room and tell him you want him bathed too."

Sansa turned her attention to the matter of jewelry. Her collection was rather scant. The bracelets and necklaces her parents had given her had been left behind when she fled King's Landing, along with the moonstone set Joffrey had given her (not that she'd have worn them anyway but perhaps she could have traded them for other jewels). Though Petyr had given her Aunt Lysa's jewelry to her, Sansa had left it all behind. It hadn't felt right to take it when she left the Vale; Arryn jewels belonged to an Arryn bride, not to a Stark maiden. The jewelry she had taken with her was _hers_, like the pair of pearl-studded silver combs her maid arranged in her hair. _Petyr bought them for my name day because he loved my mother and I could have been his daughter_, she thought, forcing away the memory of Littlefinger's mouth on hers.

At last she looked at herself in the looking glass that had once stood in her lady mother's chambers. She looked just the way she imagined the maidens in the songs looked when they were about to wed their brave knights. She was sure Sandor loved her and that he would only love her more when he saw her like this.

They said their vows before the septon in Winterfell's little sept first. Sansa wished her father was alive to lift away the maiden's cloak, but otherwise it was perfect. There was no dwarf capering on the back of a fool to drape her in hated Lannister colors this time. Sandor stood tall and strong, and when he wrapped the bride's cloak around her shoulders, Sansa cupped his face in her hands and drew him down for a kiss, oblivious to the shocked gasps of the witnesses. When the septon bid them to seal the ceremony with an official kiss, Sandor picked her up and kissed her hard.

Afterwards the wedding party walked to the godswood and they said their vows a second time before the weirwood heart tree. The sept had only had space for the lords; in the godswood they were joined by nearly everyone who had come for the tourney. Lord Dayne stood beside Arya and Sansa saw him try to hold her hand, only to back away when Nymeria moved between them. Summer and Shaggydog stood beside her brothers too, and Sansa told herself Lady's shade was with her.

The feast was splendid too. All her favorite foods were served and the singers sang her favorite songs. Best of all, Sandor _danced_ with her. Sansa hadn't expected him to and had already convinced herself it didn't matter. She was surprised when he took her hand when the dancing started.

"Just the once," he said, glowering as if she'd suggested otherwise.

Sansa was quite grateful for even that one time. Her husband wasn't a very good dancer, but he wasn't completely terrible either. At least he didn't step on her feet, unlike her little brother who followed him.

She overheard some people say unkind things about her and about Sandor, but she didn't let them ruin her enjoyment of the day. Though when some man joked that wolf or dog, she was a bitch either way, Sansa contemplated having Rickon send Shaggy to scare him. The jokes became bawdier as the guests drank more, until it was time for the bedding.

Sansa's concern was for her beautiful gown. She shrieked when Greatjon Umber seized her. His hands were filthy with grease that would be sure to stain her gown. Someone else yanked her shoes off and tossed them away to be claimed by the castle dogs for chewing. She was naked as her name day by the time Lord Umber deposited her on the bed in the bridal chamber.

A group of women accompanied Sandor to the marriage bed but none of them had the courage to undress him, save Arya who had no interest in doing so. "It's not my fault and don't blame it on me or I'll tell her what you said that one time."

"It _was_ your fault," Sandor retorted. When he took off his tunic, Sansa realized they were arguing over the burn scars that covered his left forearm.

He peeled off his breeches and Arya jabbed at a scar on his leg. "That one would have been worse if not for me."

There was a bandage over his ribs on one side where that awful Tyrell knight had wounded him. Sansa clutched the covers to her bare chest and blinked back tears. That wicked Ser Galladon had nearly killed her poor Sandor.

"There, there. Don't cry," said an older woman, wife of one of the riverlords. "Fierce warriors are not nearly so fierce in bed, child." She plucked the combs out of Sansa's hair and set them down safely on the little table beside the bed. "I attended your parents' wedding, you know. Saw them tumble Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard into bed."

"You wouldn't even be alive if it weren't for me," Arya was saying to Sandor. "And it was your own fault for getting drunk."

Finally everyone left and it was only the two of them. Sansa glanced shyly at Sandor. She had never seen him unclothed before. He seemed bigger out of his armor and clothing though that shouldn't be. She ignored his stirring manhood and focused on the scars that marred his skin. She touched the burn scars on his forearm. "How did this happen?"

"Lord Beric put me on trial and fought with a flaming sword."

Sansa frowned. How could that be Arya's fault? "On trial for what?"

Sandor was watching her closely. "For killing your sister's butcher's boy. The one who attacked Joff."

"That was not fair. You only did your duty."

"If the boy struck a prince of the royal blood, he deserved to die; no one disputed that. But your sister claimed Joffrey lied, that the boy never hit him."

Sansa didn't like to think about such unpleasant things. That was all in the past. It was best forgotten. She moved her hand up Sandor's arm to his shoulder and then up to his neck where the older burn scars began. Her poor husband had suffered so. No one would ever harm him again though. She raised herself to her knees and put her arms around him, moving close for a kiss.

Only to be stopped by Sandor dangling a blue ribbon in front of her. "How did that fool knight get this?" he asked.

"Perhaps he bought it at the market."

"I watched you, and more than once I saw you wear this in your hair."

The ribbon did look like hers. "I don't know. Perhaps he bribed my maid to give it to him."

"Your maid?" Sandor laughed. "Little bird, whatever game you played, I only ask that you give me some warning next time."

She didn't know what he meant. The tourney had been like something from a song and that horrid Ser Galladon had nearly ruined it. And now Sandor was ruining their wedding night by accusing her of awful things. Sansa couldn't stop tears from springing to her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've become a better liar at least."

"Why would I lie about such a thing?"

Sandor left the bed and claimed the flagon of wine that had been set out for them. He didn't bother pouring it into a cup, drinking straight from the pewter flagon. "What happened between Joffrey and the butcher's boy? I heard you supported Joffrey's tale."

"I don't remember."

"Cersei had your father hack off your wolf's head because of it," he said cruelly. "I'd not think you would forget that."

This wasn't at all the way Sansa had imagined tonight going. "Why are you being unkind to me?" she whispered.

"Seven bloody hells," he swore. "Stop your weeping. I merely asked you a question."

"And I told you I don't remember." Sansa was becoming angry. "Why are you speaking of these things _now_?"

"Is it too much to ask for truth from my bride?" He finished the wine and slammed the empty flagon down on the table.

Sansa was _good._ A good woman wouldn't tell the kind of lies he was accusing her of telling. He was making her sound nearly as bad as Cersei Lannister. "If you don't believe me, you ought not have married me," she said icily. He was a miserable, ungrateful _dog_. He had wed a highborn lady with a dowry that would make him the envy of most men in the realm; he should have occupied himself loving her, not accusing her of being some vile scheming liar.

Sansa pulled the covers securely around her and turned onto her side so she couldn't see her horrible husband. "Good night, my lord." Sandor did not reply, and a while later she felt the featherbed sink under his weight as he climbed into bed. She waited for him to apologize to her, but eventually the sound of his breathing changed and she realized he'd gone to sleep. Killing him in his sleep would be an overreaction so Sansa closed her eyes and hoped for pleasant dreams.

It was still night when she awoke, moonlight streaming through the open window to shine upon the bed. Sandor was asleep. Sansa sat up and studied him. The dim, silvery light of the moon was kinder to his face than bright sunlight usually was. The scars didn't seem so bad now. He turned, rolling onto his back, and the sheets slipped lower. It was a marvel the way such broad shoulders tapered to narrow hips. Sansa put her hand on his chest and slowly slid it down to his belly, feeling coarse hair and hard muscle beneath her palm. The blanket covered the rest. She hesitated for a moment then tugged it away.

She touched his manhood lightly and felt it _move_ in her hand, growing stiffer and bigger. She'd known it would, of course; she wasn't a stupid little girl, no matter what Jeyne or anyone thought. Sansa couldn't say how long she sat there stroking him before she glanced up at Sandor's face and saw that his eyes were open.

"Sansa." His raspy voice sounded even rougher than usual.

He'd never addressed her by her name before. Sansa snatched her hand away. She felt she should apologize, though she was sure he didn't mind what she'd been doing. Instead she said, "I didn't realize you were awake."

"Neither did I. I thought I had to be dreaming."

That sounded almost nice. Sansa gave him a tentative smile. "Do you dream of me?" It was terribly bold, but they _were_ married.

"Often, though you wouldn't like them all."

_I'll have a song from you._ The memory (or maybe it was the sudden gust of wind that blew through the window) made her shiver. "I've dreamt of you too."

He laughed. "Save your pretty lies for fools like _Ser_ Galladon."

She swatted his leg in annoyance. Why did he have to bring that up again? "It's not a lie. I've dreamt of my wedding night and of you – and you weren't badgering me about dead knights in it."

"What did I do in this dream of yours?"

"Promised to make me sing." She could tell he'd misinterpreted her meaning. Sansa sighed. How could he have behaved so sweetly at their wedding only to infuriate her on their wedding night? "Not like the night of the battle. I don't mean actual singing."

"What do you mean?"

Sansa wasn't about to explain how Lady Lysa had screamed and screamed on her wedding night. "Aren't you going to…Our marriage must needs be consummated."

"What do you want me to do?"

She scowled. He was deliberately teasing her now. "Kiss me."

Sandor attempted to do as she'd bid him, but Sansa turned her face away at the last moment. His breath was awful on account of the wine he'd drunk before bed. She guided him to her breasts. "Kiss me here."

The next morning Sansa awoke to an empty bed. She could hear the sound of steel clashing in the yard so she assumed her husband (she smiled happily at the thought of the word) had risen at his accustomed time and gone to train. She slipped on the dressing gown one of the maids had had the foresight to leave out the previous day and hurried to her old bed chamber to dress for the day. She and Sandor would need their own quarters now that they were married, but she had been too preoccupied with the tourney and the wedding to arrange it before. There was a suitable tower in this part of the castle, but perhaps later the First Keep could be repaired and they could claim it as their own.

When she went to the Great Hall to break her fast, she was greeted with mayhem. Their guests were preparing to leave, the servants were overwhelmed, Nymeria and Summer were growling at each other, and Sansa arrived just in time to see Arya punch Lord Dayne.

"Arya!"

Arya stormed out of the hall without a word to anyone. Sansa stared at Bran for a moment and they reached an unspoken agreement that she should handle their sister and he would handle poor Edric. She followed Arya out to the training yard where the men were going at each other with blunted swords.

"Arya, how could you strike a _guest_?!" Lord Edric was a very gallant young man. Sansa couldn't imagine what offense he'd given.

"He asked Bran if he could marry me."

Privately Sansa thought Arya should count herself lucky that a lord like him wanted to marry her, but she knew better than to say it. "That's good, isn't it?" she asked, though clearly Arya's reaction indicated that she hadn't found it a good thing.

Sure enough Arya gave her a look of disgust. "He didn't ask _me_; he asked _Bran_. Like I was a horse he wanted to buy."

Sansa didn't really understand why Arya was so mad. Edric Dayne had only done the proper thing. But she supposed Arya didn't want to marry him, and that she could understand. She wouldn't like to live all the way in Dorne either.

"I'm going to visit Jon," Arya announced. And sure enough, she gathered a sack of hardy foods from the kitchen, saddled her horse, and rode out of Winterfell without asking leave of anyone.

To give herself time to phrase a courteous explanation for Lord Dayne, Sansa sought out Sandor. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair, and not even the spiteful laughter from some of the southron knights could ruin her mood. She watched Rickon practice his swordplay and wondered how long it would take before he had a little nephew to play with.

She gave Sandor a coy look. "Perhaps later you should meet me in my chambers…To discuss our living arrangements."

"Our living arrangements, aye," he agreed, laughing.

This wasn't quite what she had imagined as a child, but she was a woman now and what she had was better than any girlish dream. She had her family back and a husband who would always be devoted to her. And if anyone threatened her happiness, well, she had not forgotten the bitter lessons she had learned in the south.


End file.
